


never thought i'd mourn (for you)

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23191048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Geralt follows Jaskier after their fight on the mountain, but he doesn't find what he's looking for.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 431





	never thought i'd mourn (for you)

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Geralt turned, finally, and stared at the empty spot where Jaskier had stood only moments ago. His stomach lurched painfully. _Run after him, you coward. Drop at his feet and beg for his forgiveness._

His fingers curled, forming fists. His jaw tensed, molars grinding.

_Why did you push away the one — one — person who dealt with your crap?_

Geralt looked away, toward the sky. It was still bright, the sun was hot on his face. His eyes stung. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried — it had been decades, at least.

_You love him._

He wanted to deny it, but who would he be denying? _Himself_? He knew the truth; he had loved Jaskier for years. At first, only as a friend, a companion — a _welcomed_ companion, but then the feelings grew stronger and stronger.

But Jaskier was human, and he deserved better.

When he met Yennefer, he felt like it was the universe confirming what he already knew. He could never be with a human. It was foolish of him to think so. She was beautiful and sharp and smart, and he should’ve loved her. Should’ve adored her, and wanted to fight for her. And he did. He wanted her in his life, truly. As a _friend_.

But he pushed through and kept meeting her, kept kissing her, fucking her.

But he still felt nothing. Well, not nothing. He felt _something_ , but it was barely a spark compared to what he felt for Jaskier. A roaring fire that, frankly, terrified him. Geralt was a coward in so many ways — why should this be any different?

_Because this is different, and you know it._

Geralt scrubbed a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he growled before he took off after Jaskier.

He descended the mountain, planning to find Jaskier and return for his things. He moved quickly. He assumed Jaskier couldn’t have gotten very far, but then — he saw it; his jacket. It was on a patch of grass, to the left of the main path, discarded haphazardly from the look of it.

Geralt frowned and approached it. “Jaskier?” he called, but no answer.

Reaching down, he picked it up. It was torn and covered in dirt. His heart stilled in his chest. He remembered, suddenly, every monster that lived on mountains. Sharp teeth and claws and a thirst for blood. He quickly folded the jacket up and tucked it under his arm.

“Jaskier!” he repeated as he descended more of the mountain, even faster.

But nothing. When he reached the bottom of the mountain, he felt like he was struggling for air. But that wasn’t right; he shouldn’t have been. A mountain, even at full speed, was nothing to him.

He spun in circles. “Jaskier!” he yelled, again and again.

Still nothing. Geralt kicked, hard, at the dirt. “ _Fuck!_ ” There was no way, right? Jaskier had survived years — decades — of traveling with Geralt. There was no way he’d been killed just like that. Like he was nothing.

“Geralt?”

He didn’t look up. It wasn’t the person he wanted. They stepped closer.

“What’s going on?” Then, “is _that —_ “ Geralt finally looked up. Yennefer stared at Jaskier’s jacket. “Oh, Geralt,” she said, much too knowingly.

She should’ve been angry at him, had been just minutes earlier. But suddenly she was wrapping her arms around him, and Geralt couldn’t fight it. He clutched Jaskier’s jacket in a fist and buried his face in her hair.

“I messed up, Yen,” he said, swallowing thickly. “Really bad.”

She rubbed his back, silent. There was nothing she could say, and she knew it.

Yennefer opened the door. “Okay,” she said. “Your time is up.” Geralt looked up as she stomped over, stopping at the foot of the bed. “I understand your pain,” she said, “but you can’t mourn him forever, Geralt.”

“He’s dead,” he said instantly. “Because of me.”

She sighed softly and sat at his feet. “If we had fought,” she said, “and you had ran down the mountain and gotten killed by some beast, would you want me blaming myself?” Geralt opened his mouth, but she barreled on, “No, you wouldn’t, because that’s not _fair_ , Geralt.”

Sniffing, he looked away.

“Jaskier wouldn’t want you — ”

He tensed, “Don’t tell me what he would want,” he snarled. “You barely knew him.”

Yennefer was silent for a few long seconds. “You’re right,” she said, uncharacteristically soft. “I did not know him as well as you did. I can’t pretend to know your pain.”

Geralt stared at a spot on the floor, a scuff mark from a chair, maybe. “No,” he said evenly. “You can’t.”

“But I’m not going to let you do this to yourself,” she continued firmly. “You have to move on.”

Geralt’s eyes flickered, briefly, to his swords. He hadn’t used them in weeks. Yennefer reached out and placed a hand on his leg. He jerked away. She sighed and placed both her hands in her lap.

“I might not have known him very well,” she said, “but he was a good man.”

Geralt didn’t reply. He couldn’t rightfully argue that. Jaskier had been good, through and through, _truly_ good. Geralt had always been afraid of ruining him. Yennefer stood up.

“He would not want you to suffer,” she said as she walked to the door. “And you know that.”

Geralt left a few days later. Yennefer hugged him tight. “You will find it again,” she said, barely a whisper.

He pulled back and stared at her, searching, “Find what?”

Yennefer smiled, soft and knowing. His skin prickled at the sight. “ _Love_ ,” she said, patting his arm. “Goodbye, Geralt. Don’t be afraid to visit.”

Geralt grunted before turning away and walking to Roach, who waited patiently for him. Roach nudged him once he was close enough, and he ran a hand over her soft, short fur. A familiar comfort. He mounted her and took off, thinking one thing the whole time: perhaps he hadn’t been as discreet as he thought.

He couldn’t help wondering if Jaskier had known, too, before — well, better not to think about it.

Geralt continued living. He hunted, and traveled, and eventually he felt a little better. Most days, he didn’t even think of Jaskier anymore. But nights were a different story; whenever he closed his eyes, he saw him. Most of his dreams — nightmares — ended with Jaskier dying in crueler, bloodier ways.

His brain really fucking hated him, apparently.

Yennefer had suggested he move on, but Geralt had learned his lesson. He never befriended another person again. He would talk to them, even play nice, but he never befriended them. He would never let another person see the _real_ him.

It was seven months after Jaskier’s death when he heard it: he was traveling through a small town, covered in blood and guts, when he heard it — singing, and a lute. It was hushed, across town, but with his hearing it was crystal clear. Geralt shouldn’t have even noticed it — he had stumbled across plenty of bards since Jaskier’s death — but this was different.

He knew it was different, deep down, _somehow_. He couldn’t explain it.

Geralt turned and fucking ran. He saw the tavern and his stomach lurched painfully.

_You’re only hurting yourself. You know he’s dead. You really think you’re going to walk in there and —_

Geralt threw open the door and his heart stopped beating. In the back of the tavern, in front of a roaring fire, was Jaskier in all his glory. His hair had gotten a little longer, and his clothes were torn, but he was fucking _alive_. He stopped playing when he saw Geralt, an odd mix of emotions playing out across his face. He didn’t care.

“Jaskier,” he breathed, rushing to him. He didn’t wait for a reply; he just threw his arms around the bard and spun him around, squeezing him tight. Jaskier let out a soft laugh once he stopped, setting him back down.

He looked at Geralt almost fondly. “I didn’t expect such a warm reunion,” he said quietly, almost sadly.

Geralt’s heart started beating again. “Jaskier, I — ” he gripped his shoulders. “I thought you were _dead_.”

Jaskier blinked once. “Um,” he placed a hand on Geralt’s arm. “I think we should, uh, have this conversation… _not_ here.”

He quickly realized what he meant; they had attracted a lot of attention. Geralt nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He walked with Jaskier out of the tavern, never once letting go of him. He touched him the whole way, a hand on the small of his back, an arm around his shoulders. He didn’t notice his hand shaking until Jaskier grabbed it, squeezing.

“You’re not joking,” Jaskier said. “Geralt, why — why would you ever think that?”

Geralt thought of Jaskier’s torn jacket; he still had it, tucked away in his bag. “I went after you,” he said, speaking fast, “after our fight. I ran down the mountain, not even — Gods, it couldn’t have been more than five minutes, Jaskier. You were nowhere to be seen, and… and I found your jacket. Discarded and torn, and I thought — ”

Jaskier squeezed his hand harder. “Geralt,” he said, slow and quiet. “My jacket snagged on a _branch_. I was so worked up I didn’t feel like dealing with it, and just ripped it off and left it.”

He suddenly felt so stupid for jumping to conclusions, “Jaskier, I — ”

Jaskier shushed him, not unkindly. “I have a room at the inn. Come with me?”

Geralt nodded without missing a beat. He never wanted to leave Jaskier’s side again, not even for a moment.

They sat on the bed together, quiet, holding hands. Geralt opened his mouth, closed it. He didn’t know what to say. Or, well, he did — he just didn’t know where to _start_. He thought he’d never see Jaskier again. Not in this life, at least.

“You really fucking hurt me,” Jaskier said finally. He didn’t sound angry, surprisingly, just hurt.

Geralt would’ve preferred anger. He nodded, stroking the back of Jaskier’s hand with his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he said. He had imagined saying that so many times, and now he finally could. It was freeing, but not enough.

Jaskier sniffed and turned his head, burying his face against Geralt’s shoulder. “I thought you’d be happier if you never saw me again,” he said, so quiet. “I left the mountain and traveled for weeks before stopping. I wasn’t dead, Geralt, but I might as well have been.”

“Don’t say that,” he replied gruffly. “I — I pushed you away for a reason, Jaskier.”

Jaskier sniffed again. He didn’t say anything. Geralt took a deep breath. He had to be honest; it was what Jaskier deserved, and if he told him to fuck off after this, it was what _he_ deserved for hurting Jaskier again and again.

“I was _afraid_ , Jaskier,” he said. Jaskier turned his hand over, their fingers lacing together. “I had never _felt_ so strongly before. Good or bad; nothing compared to the intensity of what I felt — _feel_ — for you, Jaskier. I was fucking terrified of what that meant. Of — of the power you had over me.”

Jaskier nosed at his shoulder, still silent.

“But more than that, I was afraid of losing you. Didn’t matter if that was by choice or not. If one day you would grow tired of me, and my crap, and pack up and go… _or_ if one day you would be killed, because of me, because of my lifestyle.”

Jaskier pulled away, and Geralt turned to look at him.

“I don’t expect you to feel the same way,” he continued. “Not after everything I said, but I want you in my life, Jaskier. As a friend, as a companion. Details be damned. I just _want you in my life._ ” Geralt leaned forward, slow, and pressed their foreheads together. “Please, forgive me enough to at least grant me that.”

Jaskier took a shaky breath. “You’re the biggest idiot I’ve ever met,” he whispered. “I mean that.”

Geralt let out something between a sob and a snort. “I deserve that,” he said, meaning it. He would let Jaskier call him every undesirable thing under the sun if it meant he would forgive him, stay with him. “What I _don’t_ deserve is your forgiveness, but — ”

“Stop it,” he whispered, interrupting. “Just — stop it, okay?”

Then, suddenly, he was kissing him. Geralt was so surprised he couldn’t even kiss back. Jaskier pulled back, eyelashes fluttering, and nosed at his jaw. “I forgive him,” he said. “For everything.”

“Jaskier, I — ”

He kissed him again, harder. Geralt didn’t deserve him — he definitely didn’t deserve _this_ — but he was a selfish man. He kissed back. He was getting a second chance, in more ways than one, and he wasn’t wasting it. Not this time.


End file.
